


Sherlock Stands

by Tyira



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 20:03:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyira/pseuds/Tyira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock sneers. "I don't have friends," he growls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock Stands

Sherlock stands.  
  
"Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive." Moriarty's voice darkens. "Your friends will die if you don’t."  
  
Sherlock sneers. "I don't have friends," he growls.  
  
"Oh! Then it won't be a problem if I--" The madman takes his phone out again. Moments after he hits send, Sherlock freezes.  
  
Though he hears nothing, three gunshots go off in his head.  
  
No. Four.  
  
Sherlock grasps at his burning shoulder, cursing Moriarty, cursing the gun in that man's--  
  
Moriarty doesn't have a gun.  
  
Sherlock looks down at his shoulder. No blood blossoms from the center of the pain. He was not wounded. Breathless, Sherlock asks Moriarty, "Who? Who did you kill?"  
  
"Three guesses."  
  
"Mrs. Hudson."  
  
The man grins at him, a sick, twisted grin. Sherlock vows he will send that man to--  
  
"Lestrade."  
  
The grin widens, his teeth glimmering in the daylight, his eyes--  
  
His voice breaking, Sherlock chokes out, "John."  
  
His grin turns to a sick cackle as Moriarty nears Sherlock. That man--no, he is not a man--  
  
"I'm disappointed, Sherlock. Killing people. But then, you don't have any friends." An almost genuine sorrow is on the beast's face as he leaves the rooftop and descends into the hospital.  
  
Sherlock doesn't remember any more.  
  
\---  
  
 _You left us, Sherlock,_ the voices say. _All alone._  
  
"I couldn't let him win!" he tells them. "More people would die!"  
  
They do not listen. _Sherlock, you left us to die,_ they say. _You killed us._  
  
"No," he whispers, but they refuse to hear him. Now Sherlock feels a pain in his shoulder, a pain in his hip, and pain in his back he knew came from old age.  
  
 _You took your gun to our heads,_ they hiss. _We are gone and you are to blame._  
  
He knows they can't be their voices. John, at least, would never say those things. But when he listens, those are the voices he hears.  
  
His life--if you could still call it that--is simple. Wake, eat, sleep. Mycroft comes sometimes. Sherlock knows in the back of his mind that Mycroft is sad. He doesn't care. His sorrow is more important than anything Mycroft could have ever felt.  
  
He doesn't go to their funerals. The voices would begin to scream at him instead of their normal eerie whispers.  
  
 _We are dead and it's your fault._  
  
Sherlock wants to join them. He can't. The beast opposite him on the rooftop would win.  
  
Mycroft comes just when Sherlock has found John's old gun. He takes it. Sherlock almost takes it back, but the voices and the pain in his shoulder increase.  
  
Sometimes the voices tell him other things. _Join us,_ they murmur. _One gunshot. One pill. One knife wound._  
  
He can't.  
  
"I can't," he tells the three voices. "I can't let him win. I can't--"  
  
Sherlock used to be able to count the times he ever cried on one hand. Now it's too much for both his hands and feet.  
  
Every night, the voices lull him to sleep and continue in his dreams. This night, the voices are smoother. Far more serene. Their tune changes from accusatory to luring.  
  
 _Come home with us,_ they say. _Come home._  
  
Suddenly they stop. One voice stands alone.  
  
 _Sherlock,_ it says, _one more miracle, just for me..._  
  
In his sleep, Sherlock goes home to the three voices, like they ask.


End file.
